The Spirit Wood by Robert Masello Page B

animal scrambled, eluding their grasp. The man—fat, clumsy, was it that Angelos character?—made a lunge, but it appeared to butt him away with its head. A goat? Suddenly, there was ferocious barking, and two large dogs bolted out of the woods. The prey made a mad dash across the lawn, toward the protection of the trees on the far side, and disappeared into them just as the dogs were about to close in. The figures followed them, joined now by one more—a second man, crooked at the waist, who loped along, his arms swinging wide at his sides, like some kind of animal himself. Even after they had all vanished into the black border of trees, Byron stood transfixed, his bare feet almost frozen to the floor. Dodger whined,his ears twitching back, and a second later Byron heard it too—a low, tremulous whistling sound, as natural and disembodied as wind itself, musical but without melody, and unlike anything he had ever heard before. Mingled with it, on the cool night air, was the faint but acrid smell of smoke.

Nine
    I T HAD TAKEN her the better part of the week, but Meg was at last beginning to see some order emerge; when they'd finally succeeded in chipping the padlock off the boathouse door—no one knew where the key might be—she'd found the inside of the room a musty, dust-covered jumble of empty glaze buckets, sagging shelves, broken pottery, and uncleaned tools. The windows hadn't been washed in years, it seemed, and only a gray-green light from the water struggled in through the thick film on the glass. That, she decided, would have to be the first order of business. With a bucket and sponge, she cut away at the grime on the row of windows facing the bay; then, with the interior well-lighted, she went to work on the floor of rough wooden planks, sweeping up the pottery shards, crumpled rags, old newspaper. She dumped the refuse into one of the plastic garbage cans that had been labeled by some unknown hand, on a faded strip of adhesive tape, “Seasoned Clay.”
    Almost everything she'd need in the way of equipment was already there; whoever had worked in the studio before her had known what he or she was doing. In the center of the room, there was a wide stone-topped table and a wooden stool, and between two of the windows, an electric wheel that, after a little tinkering, kicked into gear. In the corner farthest fromthe door, and dominating the room, was a dull-green kiln the size and shape of a huge wine barrel. It rested in front of the wide, sealed boat doors, at the lip of the corrugated ramp which led down and into the water. Meg first wiped clean the metal sides of the kiln, then heaved the lid up; there was nothing inside. When she closed it again, the steel hinge refused to let go; she fiddled with the screws, the lid started to fall, then caught again. She pressed the screw harder, and this time she was just able to get her fingers clear before the support bar retracted and the top came down with a whomping thud. The machine rocked slightly on its cinder-block base. She'd have to get Peter or Byron to help her realign it securely.
    But with the exception of such minor adjustments, everything was ready to go. Taking inventory of what was there and what she'd brought with her from Mercer, she sat down on the wooden stool and made up a list of what she needed to order: some chemicals, a new glazing brush, a spare fettling knife. She had just finished the list, and was about to turn off the lights and leave, when Angelos appeared in the open doorway.
    “Morning,” she said. Then, not knowing what to say next, added, “So how do you like the place now?”
    Angelos's eyes roamed around the room. Meg wasn't sure he knew what he was supposed to be noticing. She wasn't sure why he was there, either.
    “Are you looking for something?” she asked, hesitantly.
    “No,” he replied, his eyes returning to her. “The door was open. You will be working here?”
    Meg explained, as simply as she could, that she would